


Ashes

by Quilly



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: F/M, Gen, chelsea's birth name is charmion, i thought the drabbles this month were supposed to be happy, idk why she didn't just keep it, marcus is a depressed soul, saddest sad to ever sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Didyme is late.</p><p>(Day Eleven of Quilly's OTP Extravaganza. For Historybuff262)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Playing catchup! This is for Historybuff262, and I am positive she didn't want it to be this upsetting. Also, if you get confused by "Charmion" near the end, that's Chelsea's birth name, and since this is still about 1000 BC, I figure she wouldn't have changed it yet. Go figure. Enjoy!

She was late.

 

It had been a long time since Marcus had felt the curious tinge of impatience and anxiety. In his mortality that had come with a lot of pacing and lip-chewing. He liked to think that after a few centuries he’d outgrown such behavior. He simply adjusted his tunic and waited, watching Aro swirl around the dance floor without a care in the world. He wrinkled his nose.

 

An hour passed. Then two. She had never kept him waiting this long, not even in her most teasing of moods. It grated on his nerves. Not that he was upset with her, no, he was just certain that perhaps a servant had bungled her dress, that’s all. Or perhaps she had stopped to feed on the way. He was _not_ chewing on his lip, for any reason. He was simply baring his teeth at a young hopeful, is all.

 

Nearly three hours went by before he decided to get some air. She had very expressly said not to worry if she was tardy, but three hours was too long a time. He made his way to the balcony and froze. There was a large quantity of smoke in the air, underneath which was an unmistakable, almost imperceptible sweetness.

 

He found the source easily enough. It was the small house he and Didyme had shared while staying in this country, burnt to a crisp and carving out a very neat square from the line of homes on either side. Something very strong and very cold closed on his throat and clenched his stomach, and he set about searching through the ashes, hoping against hope that perhaps…

 

He found, in a pile of charred silk and wool, a pendant and a ring, both gifts from Marcus, as well as a matted clump of burning hair.

 

He collected both pieces of jewelry and returned to Aro’s idiotic party, feet shuffling like the dead and eyes staring straight ahead. He inserted himself into the complicated new dance Aro was teaching his sycophants, and when the man himself protested against the intrusion mutely offered his evidence as explanation.

 

He didn’t care to listen to Aro’s own very public, very protracted effusions of grief. He didn’t care to listen to Sulpicia’s quiet condolences or Caius’ disinterest. He clenched the jewels in his hands, not quite tightly enough to break them, and left the building to return to the ashes where his love now laid, to try and salvage some trace of a clue to lead him to the dead man walking responsible.

 

By morning light his skin was caked with ash and his throat weary with dry sobs. He lay next to the bundle of fabric and hair that once was Didyme, and waited to be found. For someone would come; Aro wouldn’t risk Marcus giving away the secret.

 

Like clockwork, as soon as the sun’s rays began to illuminate his immortal skin he was scooped up, boneless, by two members of the guard and cloaked, then delivered back to Aro’s own villa to be secreted away. He neither spoke nor fed, nor did he allow the filth to be cleansed from his body. There were no clues. There were no tracks. Nothing but a square of ash and a ring and a pendant.

 

Marcus first laid eyes on young Charmion as he stood with a torch in his hand, preparing himself to rejoin his wife. The newest acquisition was little more than an imp, but as soon as she was in the room Marcus felt and knew her hateful power. The torch splintered in his hand, but the fire rolled away harmlessly and instead began to consume a curtain, quickly put out by a servant. Instead of despair, instead of hate, instead of love, instead of happiness, all Marcus felt roiling in his mind was an all-consuming emptiness. Nothing was more important than staying alive for Aro…and nothing was more tedious. The little witch’s work done, she scampered back to her master.

 

Marcus felt nothing at all, after that.


End file.
